They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. “You are coming my way,” Courtlaw answered. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. “It is very, very difficult,” she continued, looking steadfastly at the ground. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. ‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me. "This must be prevented," he added to himself.
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